Where The Heart Is
by lingering nomad
Summary: 'So you're into elves, huh' In which Fenris takes it like a man.


**Topography:** "spoken dialogue," "_flashback dialogue,_" '_thoughts,_' _emphasis_, _ changes in pov/setting

**A/N: **This can be read on its own, but is intended as something of an epilogue to 'Three Steps Forward.' Thanks to everyone who read my previous two fics, and especially to taranoire and evil_saint for their thorough and encouraging comments. Much appreciated, guys! This one's for you.

~Where The Heart Is~

"So you're into _elves_, huh?" Gamlen slurred from the stool to his right.

The last of the Amells swayed conspiratorially closer as he spoke. As if invading his nephew's personal space would 'magically' preclude the tapered-eared man seated on Hawke's left from overhearing. Gamlen wasn't properly soused. Not yet, but he was well on his way. The smell alone made it clear that the tankard in front of him wasn't his first.

Lip curling at the odour, Hawke indulged his uncle with a warning look and turned his attention to the whisky Corff had set down before him. The glass was midway to his lips when Gamlen continued. "I guess I don't have to ask which one of you's the girl."

Hawke froze. There was an instant wherein he doubted that he'd heard correctly – drunk or no, _surely_ Gamlen's sense of self-preservation was stronger than that? – but then, he felt his lover's posture shift beside him. One gauntleted forearm came to rest on the bar top as Fenris leaned forward. "Would you like to see my sword?" the elf growled, free hand reaching for the hilt of the large, magic-infused blade Hawke had gifted him with a few days prior.

Gamlen had the grace to instantly subside, shrinking in his seat and making a good effort of hiding behind his ale. It wasn't the first time someone had commented, of course, what withFenris' looks and lupine name and Hawke being Fereldan. They'd weathered a round or two of jokes about the 'dog lord's' newest…_female _right at the onset of their acquaintance; back when he was just another lowbrow from Lowtown and their association, a pact born of safety-in-numbers, rather than want. A steady return of unsubtle impalement quips, delivered with enough physical intimidation to add credence, had swiftly nipped the trend in the bud.

Though, not as thoroughly as Hawke had hoped, it would seem.

Fenris sat back as well, meeting his eyes with a roll of his own. Inclusive, though; not accusatory, and Hawke spared him a wink as he grinned into his whisky.

After six years of fighting, and bleeding, and drinking, and mourning and occasionally even laughing together, their bond was strong. The foundations of trust and regard had been cemented long before sex first featured in their rapport and had endured throughout its protracted hiatus. Neither man would sit by and let someone like Gamlen make light of what they held private and dear, but what others thought was ultimately irrelevant. When it was just them, together in whatever bed they chose to share, it was only themselves they had to please, after all.

"…_do understand that bedding me like a woman, does not in fact oblige you to compliment me as such?_" asked wryly, one green eye peering up through the fall of silver-blonde hair as a deceptively finely-boned hand trailed idly across his chest.

"_Have you ever considered that men who find their lovers beautiful might tell them so on occasion, regardless of whether they're women?_"

"_Hmh. Does that mean I should be composing sonnets about your 'raven's wing hair' and 'storm cloud eyes'?_" Punctuated with a tug on a lock of dark strands trailing across Hawke's shoulder.

A chuckle rumbled in his chest as he caught the hand in his, raising it to his lips. "_It's not about 'should,' Wolf_. _It's about 'want to...'"_

* * *

><p>The flames lurched in the grate as another gust of rainy wind blasted through the gap between the ceiling and the wall.<p>

The Mabari on the hearthrug growled a drowsy protest, hindquarters inching closer to the fire's warmth. The hole had been a piece of loose skirting two days prior, but then, _his_…_lover_ (Fenris was becoming more accustomed to the odd combination of words, and applying it to the well-built human tending a sword in the dilapidated wingback beside his) had tried his hand at renovation. With _slightly_ contrary results. Evidently, force magic did not translate well to such mundane applications as roof repair.

The mansion's deteriorating state notwithstanding, their time was divided fairly evenly between it and Hawke's estate. Hawke claimed that he appreciated the chance to escape from Bodahn's politely incessant reminders about unanswered correspondence, interspersed with 'random' templar raids seeking evidence of blood rituals on his property and the steady succession of nobles demanding that he '_do _something' about the Knight Commander's de facto coup. While Fenris didn't doubt the truth of this, he also knew that the manor's crumbling walls housed no memories of loss for the mage.

The partial demolition of his drawing room should have vexed him more than it had, probably, but seeing the red-faced, wide-eyed consternation on the typically brusque patrician features had somehow made up for every brick. The Dalish witch had accused _him_ of 'puppy eyes' once, but she'd yet to see the Champion of Kirkwall in full, doggish glory.

A corner of Fenris' mouth ticked up at the memory, even as he wrapped himself tighter around the book in his lap: The Fifth Blight and the Shaping of Contemporary Thedas, by Brother Genitivi. His frequently 'staid' choice of reading material had become something of a running joke between Varric and Isabela. To Fenris, however, who'd spent half his life fearing to so much as _look_ directly upon the written word lest he forfeit an eye, the sating of curiosity at the turn of page still elicited a thrill of the forbidden, regardless of the subject matter.

"If you ever wish to," a pause, followed by the sound of a throat clearing, carried on the scrape of stone against steel, "do the taking, when we—You should know, it isn't…non-negotiable."

Admittedly, some topics _were _more provocative than others.

Fenris blinked, brows knitting. He glanced up. "There's a degree of…_surrender_ involved," he hedged, "I've never known you to derive fulfilment from that."

Hawke scowled and looked down at the blade in his lap, following the path of the whetstone with his gaze. Incidentally, the posture also caused the black curtain of his hair to draw forward, concealing his face. "If something was…_lacking_. You'd tell me?"

Fenris set his book aside and rose from his seat, taking the three steps to Hawke's chair. Inserting a couple of fingers beneath the stubble-shadowed chin, he coaxed the human's eyes up with gentle, if insistent pressure. "This isn't because of your fool uncle, is it?" he queried, holding the uncharacteristically reluctant gaze.

Hawke swallowed, then sighed. Fenris' hand fell away as the sword was laid carefully across the wingback's armrests. "I don't begrudge my father the choices he made," Hawke didn't meet Fenris' gaze as he spoke and sensing the intimacy of the confidence, the elf didn't insist, "but I cannot say with certainty that he would've made them all the same if he'd known just how much my mother – _and_ Carver – would've had to give up." The blue eyes found his, "Ignorance is a luxury I've never had, Wolf. I've seen the sacrifices required of those bold – or, as some would say, _foolish_ – enough to love an apostate."

Extending a finger, Fenris traced the braid above Hawke's ear. "You're the Champion of Kirkwall, Wreath," he pointed out. "There are many who would eagerly resign themselves to such folly."

Hawke laughed and reached out to stroke his hip. "Not as _you_ have. As you say, their affection is for the 'Champion of Kirkwall.' Not an orphaned dog lord bounty hunter—" another gust of cold howled through the gap in the wall "—with a proven ineptitude for architecture." The man's smile was self-deprecating and for a moment, the puppy eyes made an appearance. Then he sobered, "I was an apostate for twenty-eight years before they made me Champion, and that was a work of serendipity. The only way I ever expected my status to change was by my death, most likely under a templar's blade, because it is as you say: surrender does _not_ come easily to me. An apostate's burden," Hawke shrugged. "My mother bore it gracefully enough, but it is not something _I_ could have asked another to assume."

Understanding dawned and Fenris frowned. Hawke had never hoped to take a lover?

"Home to me," the human went on, voice roughening with candour, "It was never really a building, or a village, or even a country. It was my family; the sense of peace, of _belonging_ I felt when I was with them. When I lost my mother I feared that I had lost that as well, but then you did the impossible and gave it back to me. You've allowed me to come _home _again, Wolf. There is nothing I would withhold from you if it were within my power to grant it."

For a long moment, Fenris held the dark blue gaze.

He bent then, pressing a hard kiss against Hawke's lips. "If the desire to mount you ever stirs within me, Wreath, I shall tell you," he assured, pulling back far enough to have a clear view of the mage's—of _his lover's_ face. "As for tonight, I think I would enjoy feeling your grip fisted in my hair as I climax astride you."

He watched, satisfied, as Hawke's eyes lit with stormy fire, pupils exploding outward.

It was some time until they spoke again.

**End A/N:** Credit for Fenris' last line goes to abstractconcept on AO3, as used in the fic 'A Little Bit of Ink.' If you're old enough to read E rated stuff, do a search and check it out. It will make you lol.


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